


The Adventure Of Old Baron Dowson

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [96]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Edwardian Period, F/M, Gay Sex, Kilts, M/M, Murder, Romance, Scotland, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 03:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15833310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A very different relationship since their last trip North of the Border, as Sherlock calls in a favour that leaves John in tears.





	The Adventure Of Old Baron Dowson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

In this year my brother Sherlock undertook three cases that were later published: _The Blanched Soldier, The Mazarin Stone_ and _The Creeping Man_. Watson also found time to supply four cases for publication to the _”Strand”_ magazine: _The Empty House_ (Sherlock's return from Reichenbach, which gave him a lot of trouble in the writing of), _The Norwood Builder, The Dancing Men_ and _The Solitary Cyclist_. The doctor's year-long stint at the Queen Anne Street surgery also came to a close, and Sherlock retired at the age of forty-nine. People often wondered why he did not choose some auspicious or significant date for that great event, but then they did not know that it was in fact thirty years since his first real case, the one in which he had brought me and Kean together and.....

And Kean is headed upstairs with that look on his face, which means.... praise the Lord and pass the unguent!

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

I glanced across the first-class carriage at my friend Sherlock, who smiled back at me. I did not simper like a school-girl, nor did I blush. It was a hot day and I merely reddened slightly.

Shut up!

It was nearly a year since our Highland adventure, which had ended in Inverness with the man I admired above all others shocking me by professing how ardently he both admired and loved me, and that he wished us to retire together to a small cottage on his brother Sherrinford's Sussex estate. I do not know how long I just stood there doing an impression of an electrocuted goldfish, but with him in that kilt it was probably way too long.

I more than made up for it afterwards, though. Six whole days in Inverness, where the term 'Loch Ness Monster' took on a whole new meaning for me. And the Night Sleeper back to London when we finally left Scotland – well, neither of us got much sleep!

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Sherlock had arranged everything for his retirement and the date was set now for our final departure from Baker Street. It was sad really to be leaving the place of so many of our adventures together, and if truth be told I very much feared that the great mind of the great detective would be bored rigid by life in the country. Although when I ventured that opinion to him, he suggested I might be concerned about some other body part of his being rigid! I really had to stop Mr. Hardland from coming round and giving him ideas. 

I would get round to that. Although after that thing Sherlock had done with the cowboy hat, not _too_ quickly!.

We were on our way to Dumfries-shire, it lacking but seven days until our planned departure for Sussex. Chief-Inspector Ross MacAdam of the local police service had arranged to meet us in the small town of Gretna, just across the Border, which in itself I had thought a little strange since we could as easily have gone onto his headquarters in Dumfries. The case he had for us involved a certain political element which means, regretfully, I have to once more divert briefly into politics.

I have mentioned before that at this time the country was led by a coalition between the Conservative Party and the Liberal Unionist party, the latter having split from the Liberal Party over the issue of Home Rule for Ireland. It was the common opinion of political commentators that the Liberals might never be in power again, but that year they found an issue that they could rally around against their enemies, namely free trade. By the time the happenings that I am about to relate took place, opinion polls that had at first looked dreadful for the Liberal Party were now looking much better, and there was speculation that the government might go for a snap election rather than see their rivals grow even stronger in the two years gap before they had to go to the country next..

From politics to geography. It is a little known fact that there is a small area of England beyond Carlisle; the Border, on leaving the River Esk, runs first up the little River Sark before cutting across north of the Esk and then its tributary, Liddell Water. In this small area can be found Solway Moss, site of one of the great English victories over the Scots (1542). On the Sark's western bank is the famous village of Gretna Green, the destination for runaway brides and grooms. Although by the time of this story Scots law had belatedly been brought into line with English law, the place was still a popular destination for those who had the money, and they could even receive a blessing after their marriage in the local church from the village blacksmith, who had once been able to perform the marriage ceremony himself 'over the anvil'. Sherlock's brother Sherrinford and his lover Mr. Sorbeaux had had their own 'union' blest in this way some five years back, and with my new relationship with the greatest mind in England there was the very remotest chance that I was possibly just the slightest bit jealous of that. Maybe.

We met Chief-Inspector MacAdam at Gretna Station and he took us into the village, where he explained the reason for calling us in.

“It is all about the politicking, sirs”, he said in his pleasant Borderer accent. “Old Baron Dowson, he owns the land right up against the Border and this is a very delicate matter.”

“Delicate in what way?” Sherlock asked. He was not at his best just then, the coffee he had had at Carlisle having displeased him. And the local train here had been a corridor one, so he had been unable to vent his displeasure on my body, although I was sure he would remedy that later. At least, I hoped!

“His son Mr. Alan Armstrong has disappeared, sir”, the chief-inspector said. “Very strange, it is.”

A constable chose that moment to knock and enter, and Sherlock's eyes lit up when he saw the coffee that the man had brought (he really had become obsessed with the stuff ever since.... last year. I was hard put not to laugh, both at that and the chief-inspector's startled expression when Sherlock promptly downed a cup of steaming hot liquid in one go. I knew that if I had, I would have regretted it later.

I really should have laughed.

“Yes”, our host said, recovering himself whilst I poured Sherlock a second coffee. “You see sirs, this county returns one member to parliament. When it was last contested five years ago, the Liberal candidate defeated the Liberal Unionist by just thirteen votes in over eight thousand.”

“Ah”, Sherlock said. “Which side of that bitter contention does your Baron Dowson support?”

“He is as Liberal as they come, sir”, the chief-inspector said. “A friend of Mr. David Lloyd George as well, not that I have any great regard for that gentleman. Unfortunately his son Mr. Alan is just as firmly Unionist. Their arguments were the talk of the village.”

Sherlock looked sharply at our host.

“Talking of the village, why did you wish to meet us here?” he asked. “We could just as easily have continued along the line to Dumfries.”

The chief-inspector reddened.

“That is where I was hoping you gentlemen might come in, sirs”, he said. “You see, the Chief Constable of this county is very vocal for Mr. Alan's Unionists. The Baron does not trust him to oversee an investigation into his son's disappearance.”

“Surely he has no choice?” I asked. “A Scotsman's home is, I know, his castle as much as an Englishman's, but the law is the law.”

“The baron is one of the last of the old guard, sirs”, the chief-inspector said. “Or so everyone hopes! He has a shotgun, and his policy is to shoot anyone coming onto his estate whom he suspects of not acting in his interests.”

“Or not disagreeing with his politics, I suspect”, Sherlock said, frowning. “This is difficult. You are asking me to investigate a possible crime with no access to what is most likely the scene of the crime.”

“Chief-Inspector Smith speaks very highly of you, sir”, our host said. “I met him in Carlisle for a conference last week and told him of the case then. He says that if anyone can make something out of so little, you surely can.”

_(Our friend Joshua Smith had indeed made it to the ranks of chief-inspector, rather more quickly than was the norm in the profession. Sherlock had investigated what had looked to be a small scandal over the loss of some evidence at a police station down in Kensington but it had mushroomed into a scandal that led to the sackings of twelve top policemen in the Metropolitan Police Service, including four chief-inspectors. And his friend Mr. Bell had made sergeant, too. I had strong suspicions that those promotions were at least part of my friend's 'charges' for his discretion in the whole sorry affair)._

“I fear that our illustrious friend may be stretching even my humble talents to the limit here”, Sherlock said. “But yes. I shall do what I can in this matter.”

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

“We have one break in this case”, Sherlock said later as we sat in our rooms at the local hotel.

“What?” I asked.

“Because there is talk of a snap election, Baron Dowson will be going round the locality to canvass support”, he said. “That means that we may have a chance to look at his home – the immodestly-named Dowson Hall – whilst he is absent. Although we shall have to make sure that we leave an escape route in case he returns along with his shotgun.”

I shivered at the picture. He saw my reaction and was at my side at once.

“If I even suspected any danger from the man, I would use my own gun on him at once”, he said firmly, taking my hand. “Although I am sure that you, being the better shot, would get him first.”

“I do not want to mark this trip across the Border with either of us being accused of killing someone”, I said, still nervous.

“We shall make some inquiries in the village first”, he said. “I have a telegram that I need to send, but I shall not be long. I am sure that by the time I get back, you will be prepared, naked and ready for me.”

I pouted. Now he was just using sex to try to distract me!

Heigh-ho.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

My friend spent a lot of time the next day reading through the files that the chief-inspector had given him on Old Baron Dowson, whilst what was left of me spent a lot of time being grateful for someone's foresight in packing that particularly soft cushion from Baker Street. Being woken by having your legs thrust right back and then taken by someone who had not had their coffee yet – it was far more effective than an alarm clock, even if the after-effects were longer-lasting. My stamina was not what it was now that I was past... a certain age.

“The Baron has two other sons”, Sherlock said, smiling for some reason. “Alexander works as his estate manager, which I find a little unusual, and Andrew is away in Edinburgh training up as an accountant, presumably to assist in the running of the estate. I presume that Alexander must have been the gentleman that I saw in the bar last night.”

I frowned at that.

“I do not remember you going to the bar”, I said.

“That was after Round Two”, he said airily. “You were so exhausted that you fell asleep, so I slipped away to do some more work.”

That he had not been as exhausted as I was after our couplings last night was, if I am being honest, damnably annoying. He had done most of the work; I had just had to lie there and take it. And take it again.

“Are you ready for the next round?” he asked innocently.

I stared at him in horror.

“Of toast”, he clarified, indicating the toast-rack.

I glared at him. The odds on a second unaccountable disappearance in this town had just shortened considerably!

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Three days later the case took an unexpected turn when Constable Hardwood, the Gretna policeman, came to us with news. 

“It looks like the case is over, sir”, he said, showing us a note. “This telegram was received at the post office this morning, for Baron Dowson.”

Sherlock took the paper and showed it to me. I read it:

_'Father,_  
_Have purchased Tarker's Farm lot in Bangor. Condition good but needs more plows and drills. Sorry for not telling you I was off so quickly but the chance to buy came up suddenly. Will write soon._  
_Alan.'_

“Sent from a town called Belfast, in the state of Maine”, I observed. “There is a town called Bangor there, I recall, although I do not know how close they are. In a state that size it could be many hundreds of miles!”

Sherlock read the telegram again then smiled knowingly.

“Constable”, he said, “we need to know when the Baron is going out campaigning. I need access to his property to find something that he has hidden.”

“What is that, sir?”

“His eldest son's dead body.”

We both stared at him. He, being Sherlock, stared back.

“But he is alive, sir”, the constable said, his face clearly suggesting that he thought the English gentleman had gone more than slightly insane but was too polite to say it out loud. 

“When is the baron not at home?” Sherlock pressed.

“He has gone to Dumfries today, but....”

“Excellent!” Sherlock said. “Will he be back tonight?”

“No, sir. He always stays with his cousin Lord Richards, at Dee House just outside the town.”

“Then we shall take the opportunity afforded by his absence, and with any luck have this case wrapped up by his return.”

“But sir, I would need a warrant....”

“You would, constable”, Sherlock said. “But not I. Does the Baron keep any guard dogs, do you happen to know?”

Despite his consternation the constable snorted.

“He hates all animals except his horses!” he said firmly. “He has them in stables the other side of town.”

“Servants?” Sherlock asked.

“Hates people almost as much as animals”, the policeman said. “All his staff come in and go out every day, and none of them has a good word to say about him. My good lady wife says a man who can't keep a valet is no gentleman!”

“She is quite correct in that”, Holmes said. “I suggest that you see your chief-inspector and tell him that he should find a judge who is prepared to grant him and you a warrant to search Dowson Hall. Meanwhile the doctor and I are going to find a body!”

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I do not see how you got from that telegram to the Baron killing his eldest son”, I said plaintively as we walked the short distance out of Gretna to Dowson Hall. It was dark, and only the moonlight reflecting off the dark building ahead of us gave any light. “I saw nothing irregular about it.”

“That telegram was sent by an associate of the Baron, someone he knows who lives in the United States”, Sherlock said. “It was our good luck that because he wished it to sound genuine, the Baron did not dictate what he wanted to be said word for word, so his friend made two important errors.”

“What were they?” I asked.

“In the first place, he referred to buying a lot”, Sherlock said. “That is an Americanism, as our erstwhile former subjects' language starts to establish its own quirks and grammatical rules.”

“He could have just been trying to fit in?” I said. Sherlock shook his head.

“The second mistake was worse”, he said. “He spelt 'plows' the American way, using '-w' rather than '-ugh'. Considering that he is supposed to have only just have got there, I do not believe that he would change his spelling or his grammar that quickly. No, he is not in America; indeed I have every reason to believe that he is on the estate. Or at least six feet under it.”

We reached the large iron gate at the entrance to the Hall which Sherlock picked his way through with hardly any effort, and walked swiftly up the driveway. The building was indeed as small as the constable had said, little more than a town house, although there was evidence that it had once been larger and that the rest had been knocked (or had fallen) down. 

There was no sign of life and Sherlock led me round the back of the building. The river marking the Border ran along the east side of the property and there was a small footbridge across it, which I thought odd as there was almost immediately a hedgerow marking the edge of the farm property on the English side. I supposed that one could walk along the edge to resume the road by the property, although the river-bank looked precariously steep to me. Sherlock looked at the bridge and shook his head.

“A devious opponent”, he said. “Little wonder that he trained in the legal profession before inheriting his title.”

I followed his line of sight across the bridge and could see that the ground had been disturbed on the opposite side. I gulped. The Baron had surely not... had he?

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Although it was still September the following day saw a sharp drop in temperature which for some reason seemed to please Sherlock. I supposed, not being at all jealous on my part, it was because he did not seem to feel the cold. At least I would get to cuddle with him that night.

Sherlock fired off another telegram as soon as the post office was open and then made several inquiries in the town. They seemed rather odd to me, but over lunch he told me that Constable Hardwood had taken one Mr. Edmund Carrick, the town odd-job man, in for questioning, and the man had admitted that the Baron and his eldest son had had a huge argument over politics on the day before the young man had 'left', and that afterwards he had been asked to do some digging on the estate.

“We shall call on the Baron after lunch, once the chief-inspector arrives from Dumfries”, Sherlock said. “Then I have one more thing to do whilst we are this side of the Border, and we can head for home.”

I perked up at that.

“Does it involve The Kilt?” I asked, not at all trembling in anticipation.

“Yes and no.”

I decided that I did not like him after all.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Baron Dowson received us at his ancestral home with a coldness that exceeded even that of the biting wind blowing in off the distant Irish Sea. He was a short fellow in his early sixties, though clearly Way Above Us in society in his opinion.

“I am busy”, he said, looking down his nose at us all. “What do you want?”

“We need to search your grounds, I am afraid, sir”, the chief-constable said. “In pursuit of your son's disappearance.”

“My son is in the United States”, the Baron said.

“We have reason to believe that he is not”, the chief-inspector said. “Sir?”

The Baron sighed.

“I will of course observe your men whilst you search”, he said. “May I see your warrant?”

The chief-inspector handed him an official-looking document, which he read carefully before handing it back.

“This indeed entitles you to search my Scottish estate”, he said. “That seems to be in order.”

Sherlock coughed pointedly. The Baron looked down his nose at him.

“And who might you be, sir?” he said haughtily.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, my friend replied. “Chief-Inspector?”

The policeman nodded.

“You will also need to read this, sir”, he told the Baron, presenting a second document. The Baron looked curiously at it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A warrant from an English judge in Carlisle”, Sherlock said, “granting us permission to search your land on the _English_ side of the river.”

I thought that the Baron was going to have a seizure right there and then. He swayed precariously, staggered backwards, then turned and walked quickly away upstairs.

“Should we go after him?” the chief-inspector asked, looking warily at Sherlock.

My friend shook his head, and looked at his watch. My finger twitched on the gun that I had in my pocket, but the bad-tempered nobleman did not return. A whole minute passed.

There was the sound of a gunshot.....

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

The body of poor Mr. Alan Armstrong was duly found on the English side of the river. He had been shot four times, once in the shoulder and three times in the back, presumably as he had tried to flee for his life. Without their master's baleful presence hanging over them two of the servants confessed to what had transpired, an argument over the forthcoming election that had ended in bloodshed. The second son Mr. Alexander was implicated in the shooting and he had helped to bury the body; he subsequently fled but was captured at Portpatrick waiting for a ferry to Ireland. He was fortunate in that the testimonies of the servants showed his role to be but a minor one, so he did not hang for his actions but he would be an old man before he breathed free air again. It all seemed very sad, especially when one considered that one single parliamentary seat was not really going to make that much difference to the election result (and it did not). But I suppose that some people feel politics as deeply as others feel religion.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Gretna Green was, as I have said, the place ever associated with marriage, because of the period of about eighty years (1770-1856) when the law against men absconding with unwilling (or willing) girls was tightened in England, but the fast road to Scotland meant that many could flee there and be married 'over the anvil', a ceremony which, under the Act of Union, was as good as a church marriage in England. The little blacksmith's forge was, I thought, rather quaint, and the snooty lady in charge of it had when we had briefly called been boasting to some visitors about how they were booked up months in advance. Business, I suppose.

Disappointingly Sherlock was not up for sexy times that evening. We went to bed cuddled together as normal, and when I woke it was the feeling that I had had nothing like enough sleep. It was pitch dark outside, and to my surprise Sherlock was not only up but dressed - wearing The Kilt! I uttered a noise that could not have been defined as 'manly' by any stretch of the imagination.

“Not for that, John!” he grinned, dashing my hopes. “We have a journey to undertake.”

I yawned but dragged myself up, had a quick wash and went to get dressed. I was a little surprised that Sherlock had brought my own kilt, but put it on anyway. He led me out the back of the hotel and we walked through a silent village to the smithy which, to my surprise, had a light on inside. Sherlock paused at the gate.

“I know that he and I have not always seen eye to eye on certain matters”, he said, “but I owe Kean for this.”

“Your brother's lover?” I said.

“Some time back he asked me to arrange for his and Sherry's union to be blest here”, he explained. “For all his bulk he is a smart fellow, and he said at the time that the day might come when I myself wished for such a blessing, though he was kind enough not to mention your name.”

I gulped. Surely not....

Sherlock nodded.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

In the dim light of a single candle, Sherlock and I had our union blest 'over the anvil' in the village of lovers. There may or may not have been tears.

All right, there were. But they were from both of us, damnation!

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

**Author's Note:**

> Two more installments to go!


End file.
